End of Girlhood Annemarie Ni Churreain
The first time a tree called me by name, I was thirteen and only spoke a weave of ordinary tongues. It started with a leaf and next, a mist came down from the hills, beating a lone skin drum, looking for me. Scarlet pimpernels dropped hints that could not be ignored: no red is innocent. Badger trails called me aside for a word. Come underground, they said, see what we are made of.
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Published on Sep 30, 2011
The Fine Line presents its third compilation of art, fiction and poetry by contributors Francis Raven, Michael Young, Dorothee Lang, Raj Sha...